“Every single upgrade they had,” my father said.

“You don’t drive second-rate machinery when you carry the Collins name.”

By nine forty-five, the living room floor was covered in torn green wrapping paper and discarded silver ribbon.

My mother handed me a heavy square package wrapped in plain paper.

“This one is from your father and me, Iris,” she said, her smile tight and neat.

I peeled the tape off the cardboard box.

Inside was a bright blue plastic piggy bank with round white eyes and a black rubber stopper on the bottom.